


Turn of a Friendly Card

by Lunarium



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-16 19:09:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9285911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunarium/pseuds/Lunarium
Summary: On the day Elrond was set to reach Rivendell, Celebrían runs into an elf, starving and bleeding, on the outskirts of her home.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Independence1776](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Independence1776/gifts).



> Title comes from a song by the same name, from The Alan Parsons Project. :)

The sun shone warm and bright that morning, its rise carrying with it the promise of good news. And it came in the form of a messenger asking for Lady Celebrían’s pardon just as she rose from her bed. 

“I have just received news that Lord Elrond will be reaching Rivendell by this evening, my Lady,” spoke the messenger, bowing slowly to her in respect. Celebrían’s own heart was close to bursting with mirth, but she held back her excitement with a proper reply. 

Her husband had been on an important meeting to Lothlórien for well over a season. Celebrían herself could not visit though the land was her home and the Lord and Lady were her parents; Elrond was concerned for her safety, and what with her own work to tend to in Rivendell, they had both decided it would be wiser time spent here than traveling. 

But she missed him terribly. The scent of her husband had become merely a ghost on the bed they shared, and without the warmth of his arms around her had made the experience of waking up in Rivendell, already a home she was still adjusting to, just a notch cooler than before. 

She thanked the messenger and bid him leave, then immediately set about preparation for meeting her husband. The cool crisp air—not biting against the skin, but just right with the warm sun, perfect for strolling—and the light lavender and pink hues of the early dawn lifted her spirits with the thoughts of what the evening would bring. 

She set about her bath, which her handmaidens prepared for her, and then dressed for the day, ate breakfast outside at the wide-open room where her husband normally held council. Then she set about a walk around Rivendell with one of her friends, Aphadrien. Her eyes occasionally glanced ruefully to the sun to see how far up it had gone, and how much longer until it would begin its path back over the horizon, bringing with it her beloved. 

They had rounded a thicket of trees beside a bridge, farthest that she had ever explored in Rivendell, when she caught sight of the elf. Crouched like a wounded creature, he roamed pathetically on all fours near a waterfall. With clothes tattered and fresh blood visible on his back, he stumbled towards the river; a wounded bleeding hand stretched out to wash himself. 

“Tell my handmaidens to prepare another bath,” Celebrían said to Aphadrien. “I will bring him in.” 

“Will you be all right, my friend?” Aphadrien asked, touching Celebrían’s arm in slight alarm at the appearance of the man. Each movement he made set her on edge. 

“He does not fear me,” Celebrían said. “I have pity for him.” 

“Do not let it blind you.” 

“I won’t.” 

She offered a smile in assurance, and after Aphadrien left, she crossed the bridge and followed the shoreline that led her to the man by the waterfall. She moved slowly, as not to startle or frighten him, yet even with an elven song on her lips it did not seem to catch his attention. Perhaps he thought some other elves were singing, so lost in his own troubled mind as he were. It wasn’t until she was only a few feet away before he took notice of her, and he gave a start, instantly going for the shadows. 

“Do not be afraid,” Celebrían said. “I am Lady Celebrían of Rivendell, the land behind me which you now look upon. I noticed you were injured. My handmaidens are preparing a bath for you right now so you may wash up, and my friend and I may heal your wounds after. Will you accept our help?” 

The man peered over her shoulder with haunted eyes. She knew those eyes well. Old, tired—elves of powerful elves who had seen and endured too much. The same as her father’s even when he smiled before he would close them and give a shake of his head each time she asked to be retold a tale from long before her birth. Or the same as her mother’s, though she kept the weariness better hidden than her husband’s. Yet at times Celebrían still glimpsed them and wondered what they had once beheld to leave such lasting marks. 

That same haunting look were now in his eyes. 

The man hung his head, and she took it to mean a gesture of accepting her aid. 

“How have you come to such injuries, my kind man?” Celebrían asked as she took a step closer. “Were you attacked? Was this by hand of some orc?” 

“It does not matter how these wounds have happened,” the elf said. “I deserved each of them.” 

“I do not believe that,” Celebrían said with a slight shake of her head and a warm smile. She reached for his hands, which he then gave, placing calloused and bruised and cut hands into hers: softer and ink-smudged. 

“What is your name?” she asked. 

The man’s eyes widened and he shook his head. “I can never utter it. And I do not wish to be seen in your lands by any other.”

Strange, she thought, but he must have his reasons. But one look into his eyes, and she knew he possessed her no danger. He needed shelter, and she would offer it for him. 

“You will be seen by servants and my friend who can heal your wounds, but I could have them swear not to speak of your presence to anyone else. Will you accept that?” 

The man hesitated before nodding his head. 

Celebrían smiled. “Follow me.”

*

Celebrían’s handmaidens washed him as they sang a sorrowful tune, moved by the man’s grievous injuries, from his heavily-bruised neck down to his ankles. Beside them Aphadrien worked on her herbs and salves, shooting silent glances at Celebrían occasionally: who was this elf? What had happened? Was Elrond safe?

If Elrond was in any danger, Celebrían doubted her heart would be so calm. Elrond was fine; she would be seeing him later. She was certain of that. She was more concerned about their guest. 

There was grief and affection for the man both, who was apologetic and polite to the women who washed him. Perhaps once he was a great elf, Celebrían pondered, one of the Noldor, but how downtrodden he now appeared! 

_Tormented_ , she decided. _Perhaps kept in a cell._ There was no mystery to it. But by who or what? 

After Aphadrien dressed his wounds, servants came in with a fresh set of robes for the man to wear. He at first refused them, stating he was trespassing on their hospitality, but Celebrían had insisted. 

“These clothes belong to you now,” Celebrían explained. “I’m afraid there’s not much we can do to salvage your old robes!” 

He could remain with them, she reminded him, dine and wear as many of the robes he needed. There was plenty of anything he needed, and he was not stepping on any toes if he had request for anything. 

Age had been unkind to him, as what horrors of his past still clung to him. Clearly, he had been dealt too many cruel cards in his life that a turn of a friendly one was in need. Fatigue shone in his eyes, but he refused sleep, though he was too polite to refuse the meal offered to him. True to her word, Celebrían had him dine in her private study. She located a clean leather-bound journal, unwritten in, and brought it before him with a quill and a flask-shaped ink bottle. 

“Silver ink,” she said. “My invention. I have perfected this particular ink to behave such that you may write out all your secrets, but unlike _ithildin_ which requires moonlight, it will only appear when the writer of the words are ready to have them read.” 

“You are a gifted inkmaker,” the man said. Tentatively he reached out for the quill with shaking fingers, and Celebrían wondered what those fingers once held or caressed, what they loved or fought. Before she knew it, the glass cork of the ink flask had come off, the quill dipped. The man began writing. 

Celebrían nodded. 

“My husband’s name is Lord Elrond, and he will be returning home shortly,” she began after a short stretch of silence. The man blinked but his face remained impassive, ever mournful. 

“I am not originally of Rivendell, or Lindon, but Lothlórien,” Celebrían continued, recounting her entire history to the man, of her parents and her childhood in her mother’s land, and of how she had met her husband. She saw the way her words soothed his shoulders, and his hands slowed as they drifted across the page with the quill. “We have been married for many decades now and have been discussing the subject of children. It may come up again upon his return.” 

“I would like to see him, if I could, though I fear I may be gone by the time he arrives,” the man said. 

“You will not stay?” 

“I have taken advantage of your hospitality for far too long, my Lady,” the man said. “I am well-rested, fed, washed, and healed. I cannot ask for more.” 

“But of the thing, or the person, who has hurt you—” 

“I will be fine.” He stood up and bowed. “I must be off. I will not forget this, Lady Celebrían. You do not know how much I needed your kindness at this time. Thank you.”

*

Later that day, Celebrían welcomed her husband Elrond with the warmest embrace, laughing as she took in his scent, mingled with the road of his travels. Once under the mercy of privacy, they shared a kiss, so yearned by both of them, but another matter also possessed Celebrían’s mind.

During supper, Celebrían brought up the matter of the unusual guest to Elrond as he ate, watching his face closely for signs that he may have come to the same conclusion as herself. 

But as Lord and Lady, they were constrained as to their availability, and had to play host, and so the matter had to be pushed aside to make time to give the traveling party a warm welcome in the Hall of Fire with music and poetry. 

When at last the opportunity arose, Celebrían gently tugged on Elrond’s sleeve, and he excused himself, following her to her private study. 

“He wrote in this book with my silver ink,” Celebrían said. “I told him it would reveal itself when the writer wished it to.” 

She picked the book from its spot, smiling sadly in memory of her short-time friend who sat at the chair not several hours before, and handed it to her husband. 

Elrond accepted it, slowly adjusting the book in his hand as if nervous what he may encounter within the pages. Then he cracked open the book and peered within. Something crossed his face. Instantly, Celebrían knew, from the way Elrond’s eyes scanned the page before him. When he looked up, he was smiling. 

He read aloud: “To Elrond, This is Maglor who is writing, and I wish to inform you I am well, as your wife had ensured my good health this morning…”


End file.
